


Möderische Ehemänner

by DarkmoonSigel



Series: The Notes Played In Between [33]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, CANNIBAL STYLE, Chapter two is a blood bath, Crossover, Death, Do not read if you're sensitive, I'm not fucking around here, M/M, Murder Husbands, OH FUCK YES THIS IS HAPPENING, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, TIME TO KILL US SOME NAZIS, Torture, War is hell, World War II, this just earned its explicit rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:29:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkmoonSigel/pseuds/DarkmoonSigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover with Hannibal and Inglorious Basterds if you missed the tagging. Tuck your head between your knees and kiss your asses good bye. It's that kind of crossover.  Rated M for language, blood, war, cannibalism, scalping, and whatever the fuck else I feel like.</p><p>Thank you to Aschanti for correcting my German. Screwed over again by Google translate. 'sighs'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beastheads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastheads/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Hey I wish I could say I came up with this, but it was all beastheads. They gave me permission to write this so I did.  
> I own NOTHING.....obviously. I have no permission to use anything but I'm not making any money off of it so there is no sense in sueing me, okay?
> 
> There is art for this by hannigram. http://hannigram.com/post/75487653693/hannibal-basterd-au-will-hannibal  
> Find it here. Fantastic visual!
> 
> Fuck yeah, I put Aldo's speech in there!

Somewhere in England during World War II, a bunch of soldiers are lined up, rain pouring down on them though none of the soldiers give it much mind. The Americans have found it rains a lot in England. They are called to attention as an officer swaggers up to them. There is really no other way to describe how the man walks up to them with the biggest shit eating grin on his face, like this war has just given him all the booze he can drink. 

Lieutenant Aldo Raine is a born and bred hillbilly from the mountains of Tennessee, his region’s accent as thick as any Eastenders found in bombed out London. He walks down the line, studying the men that are about to stroll into Hell with him. He’s offering a VIP invitation through the gates itself, if their willing to take him up on the offer. He would prefer that they all be in agreement with one another on this because it’s going to be one hell of a mission, and he’s got to be able to trust each and every body he brings along with him into Hell.

Lieutenant Aldo Raine is good looking enough but he has one defining physical characteristic that stands out from the rest. A rope burn is scarred around his neck like he survived being lynched. He won't talk about it and no one is stupid enough to ask anymore. 

“My name is Lieutenant Aldo Raine, and I'm puttin together a special team. And I need me eight soldiers. Eight - Jewish - American - soldiers. Now y'all might of heard rumors about the armada happening soon. Well, we'll be leavin a little earlier. We're gonna be dropped into France, dressed as civilians. And once we're in enemy territory, as a bushwackin, guerrilla army, we're gonna be doin one thing, and thing only, Killin Nazi's. The Members of the National Socialist Party, have conquered Europe through murder, torture, intimidation, and terror. And that's exactly what we're gonna do to them. Now I don't know bout y'all? But I sure as hell, didnt come down from the goddamn Smoky mountains, cross five thousand miles of water, fight my way through half Sicily, and then jump out of a fuckin air-o-plane, to teach the Nazi's lessons in humanity. Nazi ain't got no humanity. There the foot soldiers of a Jew hatin, mass murderin manic, and they need to be destroyed. That's why any and every son-of-a--bitch we find wearin a Nazi uniform, there gonna die.”

The Lieutenant Aldo Raine peers at his captive audience to find he has their undivided attention so he continues. 

“We will be cruel to the Germans, and through our cruelty, they will know who we are. They will find the evidence of our cruelty, in the disembowed, dismembered, and disfigured bodies of their brothers we leave behind us. And the German will not be able to help themselves from imagining the cruelty their brothers endured at our hands, and our boot heels, and the edge of our knives. And the Germans, will be sickened by us. And the Germans, will talk about us. And the Germans, will fear us. And when the Germans close their eyes at night, and their sub conscious tortures them for the evil they've done, it will be with thoughts of us, that it tortures them with.”

Lieutenant Aldo Raine stops pacing, taking his time to look at everybody and search faces for any sort of hesitation. He finds none in the men standing before him. He‘s followed his gut and chosen well.

“Sound good?” Lieutenant Aldo Raine yells with his grin fixed firmly back into place. 

“Yes, sir!” All the men yell back.

“That's what I like to hear. But I got a word of warning to all would-be warriors. When you join my command, you take on debit. A debit you owe me, personally. Every man under my command, owes me, one hundred nazi scalps. And I want my scalps. And all y'all will git me, one hundred Nazi scalps, taken from the heads of one hundred dead Nazi's…”

“….or you will die trying.”

OoOoO

Will ‘the Fisherman’ Graham: a Bayou boy with a sixth sense for tracking down even the most elusive Nazis. A quiet man, few know the reason why he joined with the Basterds, but some say he has a mind built for morbid displays of violence.

Nobody hooks in Nazis and guts ‘em better than the Fisherman.

Will Graham was the quiet sort, but everyone knew what is said about the quiet ones. Turned out it was true with Will. With a Cajun accent as thick as Aldo’s moonshine own, Will was lean man straight out of the swamps of New Orleans. The Basterds found that he didn’t talk a whole lot, but what he didn’t say in words, he made up more than enough in deeds. And what terrible deeds they were. 

The harpoon had been found a while back, God knows where, and was an unlikely weapon of choice, but Will wielded it with all the grace of samurai. The other Basterds didn’t complain about it. Everyone had their favorites after all. Aldo had his Nazi carving knife, Donny had his bat, and Will had his harpoon.

OoOoO

Hannibal ‘the Cannibal’ Lecter: a man who lost his little sister to the cruelty of a pair SS officers, the Basterds found him through word of mouth. Stories travelled of a Lithuanian with shark’s teeth and a hunger for Nazi flesh and blood.

Let’s just say the Basterds were glad the Cannibal was on their side.

When they found Hannibal Lecter, in a kitchen of all places somewhere in the south of France, Aldo asked him what had brought him to France of all places if he was Lithuanian. More that enough Nazis in his homeland so why come to France if he was so intent on killing Nazis? 

In answer, Hannibal had grinned slow and wicked, showing off sharp crooked teeth stained with more than just tobacco and drunk grapes. 

“For the wine, of course. No need to be a savage about all this.”

For the first and last time, the Basterds made the mistake that night of eating Hannibal’s cooking. That is until they found out what, or more realistically who, the meat was. Apparently all the gruesome rumors about Hannibal the Cannibal were all true.

Aldo couldn’t say he had been thrilled about eating Nazis though it had tasted pretty damn good, but he did like Hannibal’s style. On top of being able speak over six languages, Hannibal was doctor with surgeon training, which in Aldo’s book was a damn fine thing what with everyone wanting to kill them dead and all. Hannibal was just what the Basterds were looking for to strike fear into the Nazis.

The only one who managed to keep down his meal was Will Graham, much to everyone’s surprise, the quiet man even going back for seconds. Will just gave a slow shrug when he noticed everyone staring at him. 

“I’m Cajun. We eat anything.” 

It really came as no surprise to anyone that Hannibal the Cannibal and The Fisherman became fast friends after that, one man rarely seen without the other by his side. 

They quickly gained notoriety among the German who had their own name for the pair. 

Mord Ehemänner.

Murder Husbands.


	2. War is Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Murder Husbands' first collaboration as discovered by German soldiers.  
> Very bloody and very visceral. You have been warned, civilian.   
> Not beta read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, this is your last warning. There is references to torture here, heavy religious overtones used that one might find offensive, and a whole lot of gruesome shit. If that is not your thing, DON'T BE A FUCKTARD. DO NOT READ THIS. It's as easy as that.
> 
> This story references the Angel Maker episode of Hannibal, Coquilles. It also vaguely references a conversation that Hannibal and Will had about God and religion. If you're a fan of Hannibal and have seen the episode, you'll catch it. 
> 
> I would just like to state that I do not own any of this, Hannibal or Inglorious Basterds. I also do not own the Bible and am using Revelations 6:8 without permission. 
> 
> The biblical quote is from the King James version of the Bible cause it's the one I am most familiar with so don't go correcting my quote just cause you like a different version. 
> 
> While in canon, Hannibal is an atheist and I can see him being one in this AU as well, it has been stated that Will is a Cajun out of New Orleans so odds are that he is French Catholic or was raised French Catholic. Jokes about Catholics and guilt aside for now, I could see Will wanting to do something grand like this. Hannibal would go along with the concept for the artistic aspects of it, and the man does enjoy a challenge and is a sarcastic little shit.

Their legend started out small, but then even great oaks begin with humble seeds. 

It was a story told in the trenches to pass the time, too gruesome to be really be believed, at least at first telling As the war wore on though, those little tales told in the dark as they sat in the stinking mud that was more shit and blood than earth by that point took on some roots, growing into cemetery trees. 

The church was their first job done together, their premiere collaboration piece of strange morbid art. It was staged in a small village that had sacrificed all its people and its name on the alter of war. Just another little empty grouping of building at a crossroads made desolate by life‘s abandonment. 

It was a small stone thing, that church. An ancient structure of weathered gray stone, but with the loveliest stained glass windows this side of Paris, it was like finding roses in a briar patch. 

A squad of German soldiers had come across this vacant place, chasing after rumors and their ghosts. They decided while they were there to take anything of value or use, because grave robbing came in all different shapes and sizes. The soldiers who found the church, entering it first, ran out screaming. They refused to go back in even under order.

The officer in charge took one look for himself and called it in, keeping the other men away until someone higher up on the command food chain took a peek. In a flurry of communications, the final decision on the matter was to burn the church down to its foundations, but by then, it was far too late. The story had already began to spread, a small sickness exchanged between the grunts under breath, contagious in its telling. 

In that ruined little church, every pew was filled, nearly fifty seats in all taken by the devout. With hands folded in prayer and a bible in every lap, the pious audience’s eyes were fixed to the front at full attention, not one head tilting to the side with sleep or heavy with boredom. It was the very picture of devotion to one’s faith in these trying times, to keeping with the belief that all men are created equally and thus they died equally to, just more horribly than some.

An entire church full of dead German soldiers with their tongues cut out. Meticulously placed as a marker for the bible in their lap, each tongue tasted the words of Revelations. 

‘……And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him……’

Fishing line like spider webbing kept the bodies still and upright with their hands bound in supplication before them. It kept them tidily in place as their bodies rotted and did untidy things to that place of worship and stained its stone flooring with worse things than just blood.

Instead of a priest, the devout soldier had been given a pair of angels and a crucifixion to find sacred meaning in. Three Gestapo officers preached the good word from where they were fixated in place by more fishing lure.

The two on either side of the crucifixion were made angels, the skin on their backs flayed off and spread out like wings. They had been castrated and blinded as well, the artists keeping to the scripture version of angels. The offending organs could be found in the church’s tithing bowl.

For all his countless sins, the highest ranking officer in this house of worship died for all these soldiers’ trespasses, taking the wooden Christ’s place for him. Nails had been driven through his hands and feet into the wood while fishing line wrapped around his legs and torso kept him from sagging forward and using his own body weight to free himself.

With a crown made of barb wire, the stigmata was completed by a wound placed in his side, the tear in the flesh ragged from the harpoon used upon the medium but not fatal.

From the difference in decomposition, one could tell that this officer had been put up alive and left like that to die in his own good time. It must have taken him days to do so, his dwindling hours spent in the company of corpses, looking into the blank stares on the rotting faces of his silent congregation. 

In an empty town, his screams must of echoed, loud and futile, his prayers falling on the dead deaf ears of men and gods who no longer resided in such places. 

Even after the church was foully made into a crematorium and left a smoking shell of its former self, the story lived on. It fleshed out with every retelling, becoming a living thing that fed and grew fat on fear, sitting in the minds of men who began to dread the dark ever more than they did so before. 

There were small gods walking about out there, powerful things that reveled in death and hungered for their flesh.

‘….And power was given unto them over the fourth part of earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death……..’ 

OoOoO  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Your comments pray for the author's soul in the manner and faith of their choosing. Your kudos remain indifferent to such things and smoke a cigarette instead.


	3. Bon Appétit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scene out from Inglorious Basterds done Murder Husband style. A solider is invited to dine with the Cannibal and the Fisherman.  
> Not Beta Read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything. Some dialogue is obviously taken from Inglorious Basterds which I do not own, am not making a profit off of, and am using without permission. Read at your own risk.  
> Still not beta read.
> 
> Think you're missing something in your day to day routine? Bored and need to kill time? Dangerously obsessive and need someone new in your life to dream about wearing their skin? Follow me on Twitter and Tumblr, cause why the hell not. Twitter- DarkmoonSigel. Tumblr- darkmoonsigel  
> Are you seeing a trend here? Follow me and watch me do absolutely nothing productive.
> 
> and PS-  
> I love Germans. You have beautiful country, your beer is fucking awesome, and I like that you don't bullshit in conversation. History is fucked up and shit happens, so please don't take anything I write that seriously. I'm not hating on you.

“Nein, nein, nein, nein, nein, nein, nein!”

Hitler was not a happy man. 

Pounding on a desk with his fist, Adolph Hitler ranted at two of his generals, expressing to them just how ‘not happy’ he was.

“How much more of these Jew swine must I endure? They butcher my men like they were flies! Do you know the latest rumor they've conjured up in their fear induced delirium? The pair that eats my boys with wine! The two men they call the ‘Murder Husbands‘ are Death and Famine incarnate.” Hitler yelled as he paced.

“Mein Führer, this is just soldiers’ gossip. No one really believes the Murder Husbands are devils or Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” the braver(or not, depending on personal point of view) of the two general said. 

“Why not? They seem to be able to elude capture like aberrations. They seem to be able to appear and disappear at will. You want to prove their flesh and blood? Then BRING THEM TO ME! I will hang them naked by their heels from the Eiffel tower! And then throw their bodies in the sewers for the rats of Paris to feast upon!” The Führer raged until he was red in the face and out of breathe. Sitting down heavily behind his desk in an attempt to compose himself, Hitler wiped stringy locks of greasy black hair out of his face. 

“Murder Husbands.” Hitler snarled in disgust more to himself than at his useless generals, hitting the button on his desk’s intercom. “Kliest!”

“Yes, mein Führer ?” answered the intercom. 

“I have a order I want relayed to all German soldiers stationed in France. The pair known as the Murder Husbands, hence forth, are never to be referred to as the Murder Husbands again.” Hitler said grandly, feeling things were falling back into order for him. 

“Yes, mein Führer .” Kliest of the intercom said dutifully. “Do you still wish to see Private Butz?” 

“Who and what is a Private Butz?” Hitler gave the intercom a hard look. 

OoOoO

Butz hadn’t even wanted to join the army, but in the end, the decision hadn’t been his to make. The entirety of his military career involved him doing his best to keep his head down and not getting it blown off. 

Initially, his squad hadn’t even been looking for the Murder Husbands, the soldiers merely out on a routine patrol. Their captain had gotten wind of a rumor though from some frightened villagers, one that claimed that the pair were in the area and hiding out in some abandoned farmhouse in the woods. It was too good an opportunity to pass up, at least in their captain’s opinion. Their ranking officer had been looking for the means to some sort of promotion. Capturing some of the most wanted and famous war criminals was seen as his own personal ticket to fame and fortune. Butz hadn’t worried about it at the time. It was only two men against as entire squad of soldiers. 

There had been twenty men in all plus their captain. Twenty one capable military men trained and armed. Twenty one men of war who had disappeared one by one, until only the captain, Werner, and himself were left huddling together in the dark. 

That had only lasted so long. When their commanding officer had turned his back on them to take a piss, they had run off without him. His resounding screams of anger and outrage were abruptly cut short so they didn’t much worry about him reprimanding them later. 

Butz realized that they must have gotten lost, because the woods only seemed to only get thicker and darker the further they went, like the trees had no end to them. 

OoOoO

“He's the soldier you wanted to see personally. His squad was ambushed by the Mur…By the pair of men who eat German soldiers. He was its only survivor.” Kliest’s voice informed Hitler.

“Indeed I do want to see him, thank you for reminding me. Send him in.” Hitler said quickly. The answer to his problem may perhaps lie in the method of this private’s survival. 

A unassuming looking soldier was escorted in by Hitler’s personal guards, and commanded to sit before the Führer. Half of his face was covered with a thick bandage though that was to be expected. The few that survived an encounter with the Murder Husbands really did so whole.

Mason Verger was the most famous example of this. An entitled son of German nobility, Verger had once been a high ranking officer, one who’d had a sadist’s taste for pain and other people‘s children. He had become famous enough that his self proclaimed legend reached the Basterds. Aldo decided that a visit from a doctor was in order since the man was so obviously sick. The Apache sent the only doctor he had on hand for such things, and thus Mason Verger found himself in the company of the Murder Husbands.

As the story went, over the course of the visit, Verger’s face was cut off one thin strip at a time and the meat of it fed to his dogs. The Fisherman liked dogs, but had many a grievance with pedophiles. With his steady hand well used to slippery meat that arched away from his keen knife and the Cannibal’s detailed medical knowledge, the pair carved up Verger within an inch of taking his life, and left him there to suffer for the duration of it.

The Murder Husbands left a note behind with Mason Verger, written in lovely copperplate calligraphy, about how his outsides matched his insides now and ‘You’re welcome.’.

OoOoO

Head aching, Butz woke up in what would have been considered a charming kitchen if it weren’t for all the human remains decorating it. Swallowing back bile and sourness, Butz realized he recognized the corpses, the meat on the counters once his fellow squad mates. His former captain was staring at him from the table, the man’s head a long way from his body. 

It didn’t take Private Butz long to become conscious of another’s presence in the kitchen with him, his company looking as strange as the meat that surrounded them. Nor did it escape Butz’s notice that he was tied very securely to a chair, the only free movement left to him was that of his neck as he swiveled his head around. 

A handsome man with peculiar maroon colored eyes and a thin smile glanced over at him, looking somewhat amused by his consciousness. He held a mixing bowl in hand and appeared to be finishing up with a dough of some kind. Dressing impeccably in a suit of all things, the three piece’s jacket was folded neatly over the back of a chair and set off to the side to avoid becoming dusted with flour. The chef seemed perfectly at ease with his company and surroundings, eerily calm even among the living and the dead. 

Praying that he was mistaken about the man‘s identity, Butz silently watched the man finished his task which appeared to be cookies of some kind being put on baking sheets and into a preheated oven. The kitchen’s range was busy as well, its surface filled with pots and pans that bellowed out steam every once in a while. What looked like chaos was orchestrated cooking, the man obviously the food’s conductor as he gracefully moved from pot to pan to pot. Tasting, stirring, adding a spice here or a pinch of salt there, a feast was being made, but in whose honor was anyone’s guess. 

Just as Butz gathered up the remnants of his courage to ask his host and captor basic information pertaining to who, when, where, and why, another person joined their company. Butz’s questions died on his tongue as Werner was dragged in, leaving a trail of blood and viscera behind him from the ragged wound in his side. The source of it was strapped to the other man’s back, the harpoon’s sharp end freshly painted crimson. 

While kicking Werner’s remains into a corner, skittish blue grey eyes looked Butz over without actually meeting his gaze, the vague rumor of the Fisherman’s shy nature confirmed to be true, at least to some extent. There was nothing timid about the way he kissed the elegant cook, leaving behind fingerprint patterns of other people’s blood on sharp cheekbones. 

In comparison to his dapper fellow killer, the Fisherman could have been anybody. Dark curls were matted with sweat, hanging over an unshaven face that would have been more pretty than handsome if the man ever chose to smile. From his grim bearing though, that didn’t seem to be a commonplace occurrence. His clothing was ragged and filthy from the normal ins and outs of being a solider in the middle of a war. The only thing that really set him apart was the unusual choice of weapon strapped to his back, the man who could have been anybody the Fisherman.

Butz looks away as a small conversation in English was exchanged between the two men, the gaps in between words peppered with more kisses and what sounded like teasing tones from both participants. Butz was unsure of what made him more nauseas, the fact the Murder Husbands are actually just that, lovers, or that they were having an intimate conversation in the company of corpses. 

His attention was fully regained when the men finally have their fill of one another for the time being, the pair moving to stand in front of Butz to stare down at him. Homosexuals or not, Butz remembered that these men are not just killers, but artists as well. One concept was made surprisingly worse by pairing it with the other. 

“Do you know who we are?” was asked in perfect German by the man who could only be the Cannibal. Butz licked his lips, the flesh of them cracked to the point of bleeding. It was an useless motion on his part. His mouth was bone dry with fear.

“Ja.” 

OoOoO

“...and tore out the identification page. ..They then removed their boots...their socks…The Husbands took their lives, their hair, their valuables, their identity, and finally their dignity in death.” Butz wearily told Hitler and his generals. He looked forward to the day when he would never have to tell this story again. 

“The dogs!” Hitler growls out through clenched teeth, fighting through his frustration. Appearances had to be maintained. “Continue.” 

“There is really nothing more to tell, mein Führer.” Butz told him, his tone as dead as the look in his eyes. 

OoOoO

“Excellent. That’s makes things easier and saves time.” the Cannibal said, looking pleased. “Since you have heard of us then, you must be aware that we do not take prisoners.” Butz dared to nod, swallowing hard enough to make his throat click like the hammer of gun being cocked. The Fisherman chuckled at the noise of it.

“You are in a unique position though being the only survivor of your squad. If you wish to remain so, it would be in your best interests to help us with some information.” the Cannibal told him, motioning to the Fisherman for something that turned out to be a map of the area. “We have learned that up the road from this place there is another patrol. We are also aware of the existence of an orchard in that area. It would be in all our best interests if you could provide information about the squad’s numbers, capabilities, and whatever artillery that they are outfitted with. If you do this, you will find us in your debt enough to allow you to join us for dinner as a guest and not as an entrée.”

OoOoO

Hitler stared down the private who sat before him with hunched shoulders, a secret still weighing heavily there. “How did you survived this ordeal then?” he asked. 

“They let me go.” Butz admitted honestly up to a point. 

OoOoO

Dinner smelled and looked delicious, all the food served on the missing and presumed dead owner’s porcelain plates. Butz’s hands were free at this point, enough so that he could point at a map and handle feeding himself if he so desired. He didn’t.

Conversation was as plentiful as the food, the Cannibal translating for them fluidly, switching from German to English and back again in an instant. Unfortunately, Butz wasn’t up for either task, partaking of the food or the dinner conversation. He had witnessed first hand where the bounty of the feast had come from. It hit a little too close to home for him.

“It is a shame to abandon such a well stocked kitchen.” the Cannibal complained lightly, offering a sergeant‘s heart to Butz who vigorously declined before helping himself to some more of it.

“We’ll find ya another.” the Fisherman shrugged, shoveling in more of what had once been a man’s liver into his mouth. Now it was pâté spread out over crusty bread. Butz tried not to gag at the dinner table. The Cannibal was one for polite manners, and it would be to his benefit not to offend the particular man. “Don’t go worrying yur purty head about it, darlin. We’ve been trippin’ over chateaus left and right out here.”

“Are you sure you won’t join us? You must be famished.” the Cannibal asked, leveling an indiscernible look at Butz. 

“Nein….Danke.” Butz managed to work out in a level tone. It was either that or screaming uncontrollably in the presence of feasting cannibals, but that might be taken as discourteous behavior. The private was doing his very best not to come off as rude.

“Leave him alone. More for us.” the Fisherman waved the Cannibal off from the frightened German. It did little to alleviate Butz’s apprehensions, especially when the Fisherman leaned in to talk directly at him. 

“Now when you report what happened here, you can't tell 'em you told us, what you told us. They'll shoot ya. But they’re gonna wanna know why you so special. Why we let you live. So tell 'em, we let ya live so you could spread the word through the ranks. What ya see here is what's gonna happen to every Nazi we find. What we’ll do to every Nazi who comes looking for us.” The Fisherman told him with a grin that was more teeth than good humor. 

OoOoO

“You are not to tell anybody anything! Not one word of detail! Your outfit was ambushed, and you got away. Not one word more.” Hitler roared the order, making everyone jump in their seats. 

“Yes, mein Führer.” Butz said dutifully, looking down and away. He knew what was coming next, what was going to be asked next of him. 

“Did they mark you like they did the other survivors?” Hitler asked, gesturing to the private’s bandage. 

“Yes, mein Führer” Butz nodded, squeezing his eyes shut though it hurt to do so. 

“Remove your bandages and show me.” Hitler ordered. The private did as he was told, his hands shaking as he revealed the tell tale marks of the Murder Husbands.

OoOoO

“Now say we let ya go, and say ya survive this war? When you get back home, whatcha gonna do?” the Fisherman asked, his nonsense words translated by the Cannibal.

“I will hug my mother like I've never hugged her before.” Butz promised himself. 

“Well, ain't that's a real nice. Can’t say the same. Never knew my own mama.” the Fisherman said. “ Are ya going to take off yur uniform?”

“Not only shall I remove it, but I intend to burn it!” the young German lied, telling the Murder Husbands what he thought they wanted to hear. Butz knew he would tell them anything to survive this fresh hell. His answer caused the Fisherman to make a face though. The Cannibal looked displeased as well, a slight frown marring his features. 

“Yeah, that's what we thought. We don't like that. You see, the Basterds like our Nazi's in uniforms. That way, you can spot 'em, just like that.” the Fisherman informed Butz, snapping his fingers for emphasis. “But when you take off that uniform, ain't nobody gonna know you was a Nazi. And that don't sit well with the Basterds or us.”

“Some things should never be forgotten. Certain sins should never be forgiven.” the Cannibal said as he placed a soft kiss to the Fisherman’s cheek. 

“Poor lil tater bug. He looks all lonely like.” The Fishman cooed at the private who had pissed himself in fear by now as the two cannibals leaned into his personal space. “Let’s give him a little somethin’ ta remember us by.”

This close Private Butz could smell his countrymen‘s blood upon them, rich with iron, but offset nauseously by the cooking spices they used. If Private Butz had had anything at all in this stomach, he would have thrown up right there and then. All he managed to do was dry heave, and burn his throat sour and sore with stomach acid.

“Yes. What is to be done about that?” The Cannibal murmured as he tilted the soldier’s head back. At first, Private Butz thought he was going to be kissed, trying to turn his head away from the unwanted affection. When he felt teeth sink into his skin to start tearing at it, he found he would have preferred rape as pieces of his face were chewed off by sharp, stained teeth.

OoOoO

Hitler and his generals stared wide eyed at what remained of Private Butz’s face. The left side of it was unblemished, pristine even. The right side’s meat had been picked over so thoroughly that the men could see the private’s teeth peeking through the sizeable hole where his cheek should have been. His blood shot eye stood out in relief, lacking any skin around it. What reminded was covered with the scarred marks of teeth, two distinct patterns that left a heart shaped relief in Butz‘s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Your comments dine on Nazi heart, but your kudos prefer the liver.


	4. As Meat Loves Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two psychopaths falling in love in the middle of a war. Enjoy.  
> Not Beta Read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'As Meat Loves Salt' is an old saying from a fairy tale.  
> Synopsis-  
> A king with three beautiful daughters asks them how much they love their father.
> 
> The eldest says, "I love you as bright as the sunshine."  
>  The second daughter says, "I love you as wide as the ocean."  
>  The youngest says, "Oh father, I love you as much as water and salt."  
> Long story short- shit goes down, she runs away, marries a prince after some trial and tribulation, and makes up with her father in the end.
> 
> Not Beta Read- which hey, don't be a dick about it. 'Not Beta Read' doesn't mean I didn't proofread this several times. 'Not Beta Read' means I did my best so don't be a fucking prick if I misspelled something. Tell me politely if something is wrong, and I'll fix it. I'm not anyone's bitch, and this is a free service so don't be that person.

Life went on, even in times of war. At least that was Aldo’s observation. People could still fall in love despite hopeless situations with death at every possible turn. The Basterds witnessed this first hand with the Fisherman and the Cannibal, though no one talked about it. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that Hannibal Lecter was obsessed with Will Graham from the get-go.

After joining the Basterds, Hannibal took it upon himself to ignore all others and travel solely beside Will, engaging the quiet man in conversation whenever he could. It learned him strange looks and constant glaring from the Cajun, who appeared confused about the older man’s attention upon him. 

No one new much about the Fisherman, who liked to keep it that way. Backwater redneck or not, the dark haired man from the bayous of Louisiana was good in Aldo’s book. Even in the middle of a fire fight, Will could fix just about any machine shot to shit in less than twenty minutes with nothing more than a knife, some duct tape, rusted wire, and a whole lot of good ole Southern cussing. He was smart as a whip, but obviously self educated if his non-conversations with the former privately tutored, Lithuanian count were anything to go by. 

Master of the silent treatment, Will never once turned down anything Hannibal offered him to eat though, which everyone, including Aldo, didn’t dare do after confirming the doctor’s odd eating habits. What Will lacked in polite dinner conversation, he more than made up for in appetite. He ate anything and everything Hannibal gave him without question or regard from where, or more accurately who, it came from. It got to the point Hannibal would only cook for himself and Will. 

In Aldo’s opinion, you didn’t need to be an expert to see that the man was in love, or at least some sort of twisted version of it as one sided as it was for a time. Though resistant at first, Will Graham changed his tune toward Hannibal Lecter after an incident with one of his dogs.

For one reason or another, the Fisherman always had some sort of canine with him. The man seemed to pick them up as easily as his pets did fleas. They’d travel with him and the Basterds for a time, but were usually frightened off by gunfire or other violence. One in particular though stayed with Will through thick and thin, an older mongrel Will named Applesauce. 

Applesauce, Aldo blessed her doggy heart, met an unfortunate end but saved all their asses. The situation the Basterds found themselves could only be termed as ’fucked’, all the men pinned down between two fully armed Nazi patrols, about forty enemy soldiers in all with nothing better to do than shoot any Basterd they found full of holes. Hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned, the Basterds hid in underbrush, half buried alive in France’s cold ass dirt, doing their damnedest not to breathe too hard. 

Shit happened and someone fucked up, an inadvertent noise drawing the patrols down right on top of them. To his dying day, Donny swore it wasn’t him though it had been his hands gripping his beloved bat so hard its wooden handle cracked. General location given away but not their exact hiding spots, the Basterds readied themselves to meet their Maker with a bang. Good ole Applesauce had some other thoughts on the matter though.

Whether motivated by terror or the grace of God himself, the dog darted out from under cover, barking her fool head off and biting anyone stupid enough to go near her. She ended up scaring the hell out of some Nazis. She was put down quickly enough, the soldier who shot her laughing his head off while he did it. 

Clearing the area, the soldiers left soon enough, leaving some very alive Basterds in their wake, not for lack of trying on a few people’s parts. Will had only been kept from following after Applesauce by Hannibal, who had laid directly on top of the man to keep him hidden with his hand shoved into Will’s mouth. Hannibal had gotten bit by the Cajun for his troubles, but didn’t seem too mind all that much. 

It was the only time the Basterds ever saw Will cry. He might have gotten some shit over it, the normal good natured gallows humor, from the others if not for Hannibal. With open murderous intent, he stared down anyone who dared to even so much as breathe in Will’s direction wrong. 

After helping Will bury poor Applesauce, Hannibal even said a few elegant words in eulogy for the canine. He disappeared not long after that, walking out of the Basterd’s camp without anyone noticing. The Cannibal’s absence left the Fisherman a broken man, bereft of any sort of friend. If it weren’t for the fucking Nazis, Aldo was pretty damn sure Will might have taken his own life. Goals were good things though, and Aldo made it a point to often remind Will that he still owed him a hundred or so scalps. 

Much to everyone’s surprise, Hannibal showed up out of the blue a month later, rejoining the Basterds one fine afternoon in the south of France like he had just been out for a stroll.

“Where the fuck ya been?” Aldo said by way of greeting to the long absent Lithuanian. A small rucksack was thrown at his head in answer, its contents a fairly gruesome discovery to anyone else who wasn‘t Aldo or a Basterd. 

“Holy shit, there’s gotta be like over fifty in there.” Donny said, wide eyed at the pile of scalps that was dumped out onto the ground the Apache’s feet.

“You know what I call that? A damn good start.” Aldo grinned. “Consider yourself a Basterd again. You still owe me another fifty!”

Aldo’s words and other soldiers’ greetings were ignored by Hannibal who obviously only had one person on his mind. Finding him soon enough, Will barely bothered to look up from his boots to acknowledge Hannibal though, his wayward attention more intent on his mud stained laces. Patiently, Hannibal waited for the other man to give up the ghost of his farce and deign to glance his way. Catching the Cajun’s sad blue grey eyes long enough to direct his attention down to a finely carved box Hannibal carried at his side, the Cannibal presented the gift to Will. 

Blinking in surprise at the present, Will opened the wooden tentatively to find the scarlet velvet lined space inside it to be filled to the brim with salt. Digging his fingers into it, Will discovered what the preservative kept hidden underneath its clinging white. A human heart was pulled from the box, kept intact and preserved perfectly by the salt. It didn’t take Will long to guess who’s it had been.

“Did ya make him die slow?” Will rasped out, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear about it for himself in detail. Hannibal had a voice he could listen to all day. 

“Yes. I made him savor everything I did to him. He was begging for it, even without a tongue and most of his teeth, pleading for his death, for me to kill him. I made him wait and wait and wait. I made him suffer for his cruelty. I took his heart only when he was dead, and it couldn’t keep him alive any longer.” Hannibal murmured the words like they were the sweetest of nothings. 

“Good. He deserved it. Can we still eat em’ like this?” Will asked low, his voice rusty from disuse. A kiss was pressed to his forehead in answer, Hannibal clearly delighted by the man before him, the Fisherman who held his heart in his hands. 

“Oh Will…I thought you’d never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Your comments give Will hearts. Your kudos watch your comments get eaten by a jealous Hannibal.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Your comments are working on getting those 100 scalps for Aldo. Your kudos sharpen their knives and count their bullets.


End file.
